Death Metal
by WallofIllusion
Summary: Spoilers for chapter 61. Justin runs into something he wasn't expecting on his search for the Kishin.


**Title**: Death Metal  
**Author**: WallofIllusion  
**Fandom**: _Soul Eater_ (manga-based)  
**Characters**: Justin Law  
**Misc. Notes**: SPOILERS. If the words "Justin" and "manga" and "spoiler" don't immediately indicate something to you, you shouldn't be reading this. Less crucial notes follow the story.  
**Disclaimer**: Soul Eater (c) Atsushi Ohkubo.

* * *

"O Lord, please grant me success in the search for Thine enemies…"

Another fruitless day was drawing to a close. With a sigh, Justin Law turned off his car and sat back. His speakers wound down to silence as the car did, but his earphones continued to provide him with the death metal he loved. He tapped his fingers along with the drum line as he listened.

The song changed. Justin stretched—driving all day, every day was no kindness to the body—and went to get food from the coffin he was using for storage. "O, my God, bless this food to my body that I may better serve Thee." The prayers flowed easily from him, second nature by now, but no less sincere for it. "Bless those in the villages I passed through today, though they persecute me for playing my music according to Thy will. They know not what they do. Amen." Focused on both his supper and his music, Justin's awareness of his surroundings faded, so that it took him several seconds to realize that something new had entered his sight. When he noticed, he leapt to his feet.

Standing before him was—what _was_ it? Some kind of grotesque, misshapen humanoid, unsettlingly unbalanced. A horn sprouted from the left side of its head, and Justin couldn't tell if it was a natural growth or if it was held on by the half-mask over the right side of its face. Justin did not doubt that it was a fighter; it looked formidably muscled, and pieces of what appeared to be armor were scattered at random around its body. It sent Justin a wide, toothy grin.

Justin readied his arm blade. It wasn't just the creature's appearance that set him on edge; something about its atmosphere made his skin crawl. "Identify yourself!" he cried, trying to calm the racing of his heart. The creature continued to leer without responding. With a start, Justin realized that its grin was frozen in place. If it was speaking, it wasn't with that mouth—and Justin wouldn't be able to read its lips. He shifted so that he was ready to attack. "Stand down," he commanded. "I am a Death Scythe and an instrument of Lord Death's will. If you do not retreat, I will be forced to consider you an evildoer."

The creature tipped it head to the side.

"Stand down," Justin said once more. It didn't respond. Justin sighed. "Very well then."

It was impossible to tell which of them started moving first. As Justin rushed forward, the creature reached behind its back and pulled out a knife. Metal scraped metal as Justin just barely blocked the thrown blade. Before the creature could ready another knife, Justin was upon it.

"Saint Cross Knife!"

It flinched and took a step backwards, then another. Justin watched it carefully, a light smile of triumph on his face; he'd cut right across its face. But suddenly he narrowed his eyes. Its face—a mask?—was crumbling away, revealing a human's face beneath.

Justin's face.

Its—his—his own—lips moved.  
_Now can you hear me?_

A shiver ran between Justin's shoulder blades.

_Wonderful. That was annoying, wasn't it? At least let me introduce myself._

Justin shut his eyes. His heart was pounding in time with his music, blood rushing in his ears to the beat. There should have been no way that he could actually hear that creature's voice.

_I am the Clown, Death Scythe. I lure people to madness. I'm the contagion spreading through this rotten world._

But he could.

With shaking hands—why was he shaking so much?—he reached under his shoulder cape for his music player. He turned up the volume by touch, so that he could hardly hear his own thoughts over the bass line, so that he wasn't even sure whether he was praying aloud or merely mouthing the words.

"O Lord, deliver me from madness. By Thy will, grant Thy humble servant the power to defeat Thine enemies. In Thy holy name—"

But he didn't feel the swell of his wavelength rising; his senses were crowded instead with the terror that the Clown was inflicting on him. Something was sucking at his mind and at his chest. Without meaning to, he cracked an eye open. What he saw made him catch his breath: somehow, he'd gotten very close to the Clown. He was being dragged forward.

_Come here, Death Scythe_, the Clown said in a sing-song voice.

He had to attack—but at some point, he'd put his blade away, and he couldn't seem to remember how to change it back. He couldn't raise his arm. He couldn't even think of the words to a proper prayer. "O, my God. O, my God. Help me, God, O God, please…"

_That's not going to help you_, said the Clown's—Justin's—lips. Justin shut his eyes and kept praying.

_He won't answer. He can't hear you._

Through some miracle—it could only have been the grace of God—Justin remembered how to work his body again, but all he could think to do was adjust the volume of his music. He had to drown out the Clown's words—its lies.

_I'm the only one who can free you._

He turned the volume up as loud as it could go. He could feel its vibrations in his skull; his ears began to ache from the sound, but he endured it, because this was his heartbeat, his anchor to sanity, his identity. If he just focused on this—

And suddenly, it was gone. Replaced by a pulsing buzz of static, and the ringing of his ears. And intertwined with the static, he thought he heard a quiet chuckle.

**x**

He opened his eyes.

But he could see nothing. He still heard the static of his blown-out headphones. And he heard his own breath, a rushed, shallow panting.

"Where am I?" he whispered. His voice sounded strange; he wasn't used to being able to hear it.

No one answered.

He realized he was on the ground and got to his feet slowly. It didn't help with his disorientation or his fear. But he was right to be afraid. What had that clown done to him? If it was the source of the contagion of madness, Justin had to break free of whatever this was and defeat the Clown and bring it to Lord Death. His hand found its way to his cross. "O Lord, shine Thy holy light on Thy servant, that I may find my way out of this darkness, to Thy glory. I desire only to serve Thee…"

"Who are you talking to?"  
The voice came from behind him. Justin turned to see a boy, perfectly visible as if lit with an inner light. Justin tilted his head in confusion. The boy was him, ten years ago.

"I'm praying. I'm speaking to God."

"Ohhh," the younger Justin said, his voice laden with sarcasm. Ten years ago, Justin hadn't been a true believer. "Do you think he's listening?"

"Of course He is. He treasures His followers."

"But can he hear you? Does he know where you are? _You_ don't even know where you are."

He didn't. But maybe this younger mirror, this memory, did? "Where am I?"

Silence answered him. He realized that the boy had disappeared from his sight, and he wrenched around to check behind him. The boy was gone. He tried to calm his heart. "So this is what it feels like to go insane?" he said into the air. The disorientation, the baseless terror, seeing things that weren't there. Fine. Now that he knew it, all he had to do was endure the madness until it was defeated.

He bowed his head and began praying again. Unaware of when one prayer became the next, he ran through every one he knew. But something was wrong. As he prayed, he felt more agitated, not less; his shaking got worse; his voice began to falter. Suddenly, he realized very clearly—there was no doubt in his mind—that he was not being heard. The darkness around him was too thick and vast, and he was too small within it. His prayers were useless words, reaching nobody. In that moment, he felt himself reduced to only a soul, one without a body to belong to, a tiny, pathetic, shivering thing with nothing to tie it to reality. Fragile. Tears slipped down his face without his noticing.

"You see?" said a voice from behind him, his own, thin with desperation. "You're alone. You've been alone this whole time. This piety hasn't helped you. In the end, your God isn't there for you."

"No," Justin said, unsure whether he was agreeing or begging him to stop. He didn't want to hear this. He pressed on his broken earphones, hoping the static would drown out the voice speaking to him. But it rode over the static.

"You have to face it. If you keep denying it, you'll keep being alone. But if you accept it, you'll be saved."

"No," Justin whispered.

"If you go with the Clown…"

"NO!" Justin shouted it at the top of his lungs, but even that was swallowed immediately by the darkness. Prayers began to spill from his lips, disordered and unconscious. It was several seconds before he realized that they were empty; he was merely spewing words, meaning none of them. When he tried to put his will into them, he realized that he had forgotten how to. He was too afraid. Mindlessly, he begged, "Lord Death, please. Deliver me from fear. Please. Please, Lord Death…" He felt the darkness reflect his words back at him, mocking him.

And then, he felt a great pressure.

He raised his head. He still couldn't see, but an image born of all senses and none of them all at once began to form in his mind. It was pulsing, writhing, all-consuming—heartbeats and screams and indistinct voices—drowning in blood. It was like being watched and like being all-seeing and like being known. Before it, he was powerless and insignificant.

Sudden clarity: this was the Kishin. Something stirred within him. He'd been looking for the Kishin. But he couldn't bring to mind the reason for his search. No. With something this great, there could only be one reason. He dropped to his knees, overcome, and offered himself to the godly presence around him. A warm smile spread over his face as he was swallowed up.

_Bzzzz zzzzz zzzzz_…

Justin plucked the broken earphones from his ears and dangled them in front of his face by the cord. They swung lightly back and forth, Death's face twisting one way and then the other. Justin smiled, self-mockingly.

"I suppose I'll need a new pair."

* * *

First of all, I'm on chapter 67 until volume 17 comes out, so no spoilers please. This is just... I wanted to try it. I realize it's a bit derivative from Maka's experience with the Clown, but when I only have one sample to go on, there's not much I can do about that... (not counting the black one for obvious reasons.)

Also, I'm sorry; I promise, I'll never try to write a battle again.


End file.
